


June/July

by tribunal



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Backstory, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, F/M, Introspection, Multi, No Incest, Non-Canon Relationship, Non-Graphic Violence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Third Person, Polyamory Negotiations, Polyseed, Work In Progress, the fact that I even had to specify smh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 16:54:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17308307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tribunal/pseuds/tribunal
Summary: Below the bulge of burnished metal, everyone seems a bit smaller. Jacob Seed might be a physical force, but he is simply one man out of many, felled by a bullet as any other.When the Deputy pauses before snuffing his life, sends a copy of his defeated visage to middle brother in some foolhardy attempt to broker peace, things shift, hazy in the midst of it all.Perhaps peace was possible, perhaps these factions no longer had to be at one another's throats for the sake of thinning ideals and half-hearted cries for uncaring gods. Is that not worth any cost?





	June/July

**Author's Note:**

> I just needed to take five from tscy, that's all. Was going to post all as a longass one shot, but it felt more sensible to break it up. Be sure to like, comment, and subscribe for more content.

Asya Okoro's mother told her, when she was young, that angels watched over her. Afternoons spent detangling messy locks of coily hair turned into divine mischief, Mama Okoro telling her oldest child that _your angels play rough, chere, tell 'em I'm only human_ while Asya giggled into her hands, springs the kinks in her hair with a hushed "boing" under her breath. Her hair smelled like grapeseed oil and her skin of cocoa butter, burnished honey in the low light.

Her mama, round with child ( _your little sister, Asya; help me come up with a name?_ ), broke pieces of pecan candy off for her and Asya, asked her to _be sweet and ask those angels to watch over your little sister too, okay? Dad and I need all the help I can get_. Asya nodded her head, her first set of braids tight against her scalp as they bob. She yelps at the pain, but she gets used to it in the years to come. Sometimes, it is wiser to be thankful for temporary pains; there are some that simply refuse to leave you.

Her father, in the times her mother cannot be there, claps a hand on her shoulder and teaches her the grim faces she will carry into battle like a leaden weight. He tells her of prophecy and the soon-to-come and the be-not-afraids and _destiny_.

Her sister leaves her, and it is in the space between that Asya begs for her angels, for her Father, for her to not again be forsaken.

They answer, in a way. When her fingers clench, one hand on shotgun, other on phone recording grainy, spotty necessity. _The Lord giveth_ , she murmured, gun tight against eldest Seed's throat, the look in his eye indecipherable. Bully for her; had she seen that look, had she managed to pull his truth from her own, she could've saved herself a whole mess of annoyances.

He'd haunted her, hunted her, summoned up something primal in her she thought either long unused--gone shriveled from hunger--or faded from hazy half-memory into nonexistence. That he's shifted such strong moral boundaries of hers, made her completely unaware of any action, any reaction past the warm slide of approval deep in her gut, shames her. And now, now there is this _look_ , this curious shifting of facial muscles into wary blandness, into something eerily approaching acceptance. But those eyes, she cannot parse, cannot even begin to make even the faintest sense of.

He's given up, no, that's not the word for the laying down of that red, red rifle, the heavily-scarred hands settled on his lap. Not at peace, but no longer at war. Resignation, to the force that Asya is, that she represents. To the Asya that he's shaped, or the actuality of her?

She records him, the pinch in his brow, the slump of broad shoulders doing little to make him any less threatening, any less the creature that furrowed so fully into Asya's mind. "Only You" unfurls from her throat, a murmur on her breath even as she considers taking him as a spoil of war--turn him as he's tried to turn her, as false prophet's turned baby sister Frey. Her mother bade her keep Frey safe, and she had tried, tried her damnedest, shielded from harm with the weight of glory. But, God, when she needed big sister most? She couldn't reach her, couldn't uncloud those Blissed-out eyes. She's got several bullets for Joseph, engraved with might, encased with justice, but...

No. There's a special hole in her heart for Jacob. For this beast such as she. Not even she can hold down such a like-minded beast for long, even with Tammy's eager assistance. "You make that bastard _hurt_ ," She had said through gritted teeth. Asya, palms still stained with Eli's blood, teeth still shaking from adrenaline not-quite spent, had nodded, grim until the last. Ever her father's daughter.

So she ends up with mud-stained cargo pants, knees knocking against Jacob's own, too familiar refrains falling from her breath even as she cuts the recording, hopes it sends through Eden's Gate's reedy, tinny connection. Bold of Jacob to say she's outlived her usefulness when she's got a whole list of messes to realign, a whole family of Horsemen and their unrepentant overlord to sort. 

When she tells him her worth is not to be measured by mortal meat, his gaze hardens, sharpens. When she tells him his family will be made to watch, his mouth thins, disappearing under the shade of facial hair matted with his own ichor. _She'd done that._

The grainy recording makes its way to their precious Prophet, the promise of Asya silencing his Soldier as quickly as she'd silence his blasphemous Voice drawing him to action. _Act right_ , she'd spat at the lens, shotgun digging into the meat of the apple in Jacob's throat. She didn't catch the bobbing of his gulp, but the camera does, catches the sheen of sweat on his brow.

She hoped, perhaps even _prayed_ that Joseph would be spitting mad, mad enough to unleash Faith's Blissful vengeance upon the Resistance, mad enough to demand John act the role of Famine over Death, mad enough to _do something rash_ , but he surprises her in even this. Annoying, infuriating man. He can't even be bothered to play his own part, going more off-script than she thought possible. 

She had prepared her people for vengeance, for him to be a pale mockery of her Wrath, of false Prophet finally bearing his teeth at the truth of Asya. She had _not_ prepared them for a ceasefire, for a lone Peggie waltzing through the grounds of their claimed Seed Ranch with a white flag raised and swinging in his grip. He called her on the radio fisted in her free hand, asked for the same clemency he so freely offers, _hasn't there been enough bloodshed, Deputy Okoro?_ And it took all she had to not laugh outright; should've walked away from destiny when Whitehorse begged. Some things really are better left alone.

The Deputy was a rookie in nickname only; she wasn't going to be caught unawares. She hooked that radio back to her hip, drew herself up from her knees, kept her aim and eyes steady on the eldest Seed. There are words she wants to say, biting, cutting things about how she won't fall to "Only You", how this demon can keep his fingers from curling against her mind, how today she is _Mercy_ , but tomorrow she'll be Wrath once more, how maybe Joseph will cry harder if it's John eating her excess bullets instead of the eldest, how-

Words are useless in the face of her gaze. Her eyes speak since her mouth refuses. She jerks her shotgun away from Jacob's face, brings a foot down on that rifle, kicks it down the cliff's side.

She leaves, but his eyes follow her. The disquiet in Asya's gut matches the ringing in her ears.

 

* * *

 

           

She swapped out angels for demons; it is a startling realization, coming to her only days after her wary acquiescence to the ceasefire. Perhaps she hadn't fully considered the consequences, acting on pure bodily movement, on the snap of tendons still barking under Jacob's fading will. Perhaps the mercy she showed him was the only part of her acting on her own, perhaps she was still under the painful purview of his programming. She only considers it in the half-light of early evening, the hours between normally reserved for Frey. Even this sanctity, this "family" has perverted.

Either way, in the weeks to come, she's thrown for another loop. Several. First, it's the Baptist airdropping aid--food seemingly Bliss-free--at the re-purposed Seed Ranch. Each with a small note of some variation of "I'll expect my home back sooner rather than later, Deputy" (Asya can hear it in his voice and this simple fact alone infuriates her) that makes her scowl before she rips them to shreds. Charlemagne--Sharky--cheerfully notes that the Baptist's offerings "haven't made me sick yet, five-oh!", but she still refuses. She's reminded of Genesis, of that first failure of man, and steels herself against the cooing of serpents.

Their false "father" sends her missives over radio. Always early in the morning, always when she's alone. His first speech--peppered with platitudes--was more akin to a sermon, touting forgiveness as though he knew the word, speaking of her being blind but gaining sight and _glory, hallelujah, even a sinner like you can be saved!_ She's uncoiling her hair the first time she hears it, fingers knotting up, laugh unbidden from her. Laughs so hard she cries, Peaches leaning forward and licking salt from her cheeks.

Last time was a few hours ago, he whispered that _you spared my brother, to your sister I shall do the same_ and it takes all her will to not break the radio with the force of her grip. Wisdom prevails (for once, she's not letting lizard brain speak for her), can't afford the waste, she doesn't know how else to contact Dutch if this ancient thing goes. But both father and faithful know how he's gotten under her skin; her sister's name creep, slithers, crawls under her nails (she can't save anyone, can she?).

Faith sends flowers. Boomer checks for Bliss, comes back negative. "They tryna make peace or fuck you, Dep?" Jess asks, hocks and spits when Asya throws the flowers as though they burn her. She doesn't know, she doesn't _know_ and she hadn't even considered that they would try such a tactic. All of them? All of them, like this?

Jess narrows her eyes when Asya speaks aloud. "Shouldn't have let that slimy fuck live, Dep. You knew what he was." And yes, she does, but they've had this talk over and out and all the way through; it's a wonder Jess can even look her in the eye most days. Tammy's reaction was worse, but Weaty's playing the peacemaker Asya couldn't.

Faith sends notes as well, flowery things to match the blooms that might have some substance to them if Asya bothered to read them. They meet fire before they ever meet her eyes. If she has nothing to say to their leader, she certainly has no words kind for his number one fan, for the builder of his Babel. In her dreams, "Only You" is replaced by "Help Me, Faith".

For a time, blessedly, Jacob is quiet. Licking his wounds, undoubtedly. Remembering the burn of hot metal against the cord of his neck. She hopes she singed him, hopes he realizes how quickly "strong" can turn into "weak". Hopes (against hope, assuredly; he's too damn set in his ways to see sense, especially in the form of all that she is) that she's beat that senseless Darwinism out of him. Humanity isn't the false solitary confinement of wolves. Even beasts (like she, like he) need packs.

Same seeks sane.

A month, perhaps two, pass after Asya's turned away the flag-bearing Peggie, white fabric torn by the head of one of Jess' arrows. She started cycling her watch with more random intervals, waking herself at odd hours with throwing knives in her grip, night and the enemy haunting even her dreams. Grace shares coffee with her in the early hours, cautions her to stay alert, gives her neither judgment nor absolution, merely more creamer when she asks for it, yet another shot of espresso.

She still doesn't know what Eden's Gate's actions mean for her Resistance, what them showing kindness means for her specifically. Do they seek to mock her? Does their Prophet not think her a threat any longer? Give her an hour in their Bliss factories and she'll rain down holy hellfire on them, show them why the Baptist was so eager to carve _Wrath_ into her chest.

It's the dawn of the second week of the second month since whatever surrender she's been "gifted" and there's a loud _thunk_ against her door, pulling Asya from her thoughts, muddled though they are. Peaches rolls into lithe awareness, growl low in her chest.

_What's that you smell, girl?_

_Dog._

When she opens the door to her modest cabin, just on the outskirts of Seed Ranch, she is met with the slack-faced, dead-eyed expression of a wide-antlered stag.

And she knows, fully and truly, that they truly intend to court her. She'd somehow tripped past enemy into love interest and the thought causes a hysterical burble of laughter to emerge from her.

It doesn't stop. I mean, honestly? He _killed_ for her, might as well shout his love from the heights of that pompous statue in Faith's territories, professing his intentions to... _whatever_ to any Peggie that demands an answer. He _killed for her_ , provided for her in the way that John would never deign to. Why mess your hands when you can get someone else to?

Rewind.

John supplied her people with food, looking after her (heaven, help the Rook) _flock_. His snark--if she can separate that from the Baptist that drawled out demands while she gleefully took a rocket and a handful of sticky bombs to that god-awful "Yes" sign--is charming, she supposes. It's easy to see how he got into trouble in his heyday, how he ended up tripping, falling before older brother saves him.

(But that's just another fall, isn't it? Joseph doesn't love you, oh, John.)

Joseph sought to give her absolution, with stumbling words covered up by the cadence of priesthood. Prophetdom? He brushed past the bruise of baby sister, pressed down (because he simply does not know better, she reckons, when she sees past the red veil of lighting rage), and told her "it's alright". Always quoting Old Testament (and she knows why this, in fact), giving her new verses from Psalms to consider. "I shall not want", indeed.

Faith, more forward, simply stated her intentions. Probably. There is a part of Asya that wishes she **had** read the rambling in those letters, had done more than glimpsed at the curling calligraphy before settling them ablaze. There is more to the surrogate sister than doe eyes and soulful smiles; there is the stark madness of manipulation, to be sure, but there is more. She's brilliant, but coerced, like all of them. Even this show of affection, too obvious to be anything but a trick, could be another coercion, less subtle than the previous.

Jacob. He knows affection--the name for it--but has only been given it in scraps, had likely had great capacity for soft touches and lingering glances, but those had hardened, much like his heart. His idea of affection is taking something and break--bending it. His idea of affection is not hunting for Asya because she is inept, but seeing a need and attending to it.

In a way, it's a bit sweet, all of it. The sidestepping around this new thing at first, the wholesale tilting into it. She can't trust it worth her shit (because who decides "ah, yes, the one who's wrecked the county, the one who tried to kill my brother, _she_ is perfect!"), but she remembers Joseph mentioning her sister.

And if she has to endure this for the sake of Frey, so be it.


End file.
